


And the Idiot's Guide to Saying I Love You

by Roshwen



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: A little bit of pining, Also re-heated pizza is pretty great, But kissing is even better than both, Fluff, Idiots in Love, LITS with Benefits to Lovers, M/M, Romance, To be fair to Jacob St. Sebastian is really hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: Then Jacob says: ‘There was this guy…’ and Ezekiel feels his stomach plummet.‘There was this guy,’ Jacob says, gaze locked on something in the far distance. ‘And he… Well. Uhm. Do you believe in soulmates?’Or: Two Idiots take a reallyreallyroundabout way to say something very important. Something far more important than art, and even slightly more important than pizza.





	And the Idiot's Guide to Saying I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> With great and many thanks to the lovely [Foreveranonymousuniverse](https://foreveranonymousuniverse.tumblr.com/) who acted as a beta for this piece <3

Ezekiel was not having a very good week, and it was all his own fault.

No, wait. Scratch that. It was the _cowboy’s_ fault. There, much better.

Because of course Ezekiel could have said something. When Jacob came bounding into the Annex two months ago, crowing about an invitation to some kind of fancy-pants art historian get-together in Boston, Ezekiel could have said something. Such as: ‘So you’re just taking off for a _whole week_?’, or ‘And so we’ll just go ahead and save the world without you then? Sure, just don’t blame us when things to tits up because you’re off wining and dining with the other art geeks.’

He could have said: ‘But what about Friday night?’

He could have said that. He's pretty sure he almost did too, or at least thought it really really loudly until it made no difference, but here was the thing: right at that moment, Jacob had turned around to him, blue eyes shining brighter than ever in the widest grin Ezekiel had ever seen and the words had just...

And then Jacob had punched the air and bounded out of the Annex again, yelling something about reading up on Rembrandt or something, while Ezekiel had been left behind, blinking in his wake.

Not that Friday nights meant that much, of course. It was just a thing that had started a little over three months ago, after a nasty little case involving Jacob being locked in a Salvador Dalí painting. And no matter how much he claimed to love ‘being one with art’: when they had finally managed to break the charm and get the cowboy back out, for some reason, neither Jacob nor Ezekiel found themselves willing to go home alone.

So they went to Jacob’s place together. And neither of them mentioned it again during the week that followed, but next Friday afternoon Ezekiel only had to quirk an eyebrow at Jacob. Soon enough, he found himself back at the small but homey apartment that was filled to the brim with bookshelves, plaid blankets and, weirdly enough although it kind of made sense, potted plants.

After that, it kind of became a thing. Friday night, or, as Ezekiel has secretly dubbed it, ‘LITS with benefits night’. A fixed point in a life of chaos, a small bit of respite and the chance to blow off some steam at once.

But Ezekiel did not say anything, and now Jacob has been gone. For over a week. And even though Ezekiel keeps insisting (though mostly to himself) that Friday nights mean _nothing_ , nothing at all, it’s still… annoying? Annoying to be left on his own all of a sudden, when he’s gotten kind of used to falling asleep against a sturdy chest, with the scent of woodsmoke and sweat and old leather hanging around him at least once a week.

By now, he has been not-moping around the Annex for a good three days. Wandering around with no real purpose, reduced to monosyllabic answers when someone asks him _where the hell this very important magical item has gotten to Mr. Jones, please give it back_ and even making Cassandra complain he was giving her a headache by proxy. It even got so bad that by now, Eve has banned him to his work room (little spy hole, as Jacob calls it) and told him not to come out unless the Clippings Book goes off.

So there he is, pretending to work out an update to the Library’s ever evolving and still very ancient security system, but in reality staring at his computer and not really seeing anything. The room around him is dim; the Annex being underground, there is a distinct lack of windows around. He’s only got the one lamp on and with the glare of his screens, it fills the room with a soft white glow. The high-pitched buzzing and whirring of his servers behind him, he’s learned to tune out by now. It’s Saturday afternoon, by all rights he’s not even supposed to be here (as Jenkins has forcefully and in no uncertain terms reminded him when he came in anyway), but the sad truth is?

The cowboy’s only coming back tomorrow and until he does, Ezekiel has nowhere else to go.

No, that’s not true.

He’s got nowhere else he wants to be. The thought lodges in his throat, uncomfortable and sharp, but _that’s_ the truth. So he stays, in his work room with his computers and this weird feeling of things not being right, when finally, _finally_ his phone buzzes.

He jolts only a little, fumbling until he finally manages to slide the screen. ‘Cowboy, you back from art con land already?’

‘Hey Jonesy.’ Jacob sounds tired. Exhausted even, but Ezekiel still closes his eyes, leaning back in his chair because who cares, there’s no one around to see his face anyway. ‘Yeah, got back about... an hour ago. You OK, Library still standing?’

‘Sure,’ Ezekiel replies with a grin. ‘No worries, we managed just fine. How about you, did you have fun at the art party?’

The static of Jacob’s sigh crackles out of the speaker. ‘I sure did.’

And here Ezekiel frowns, because even over the phone, Jacob’s voice sounds flat. Which is kind of weird, after an entire week at what must have been pure heaven on earth for anyone with an IQ of 190 and a penchant for art history.

‘Yeah, I had fun,’ Jacob continues, voice slow as if he has to drag every syllable out. ‘And uhm, I know it’s Saturday right now but... if I order us some pizza, will you come over? Not just, not just for the usual stuff but... I think we also need to talk. Or, at least I need to tell you something.’

Just this once, Ezekiel doesn’t care for the promise of pizza. ‘Sure. Yeah. OK. If you order me a double pepperoni, I’ll be there in thirty.’

‘You got it.’

Jacob hangs up. Leaving Ezekiel to stare at his screen in confusion for a long moment before he pockets the phone, turns of his computer and bolts out of the Annex.

\---

The first thing he notices when he lets himself into Jacob’s apartment (not that he has a key, but when has that ever stopped him), is the cowboy himself. He’s sitting on the worn leather couch, looking travel-weary and tired in a dark hoodie and sweatpants, with couple of truly impressive bags under his eyes. There is a dark shadow on his cheeks that passed five o’clock some time ago and his hair is sticking up every which way. He turns as he hears Ezekiel give a soft courtesy knock on the door, and there Ezekiel has to stop because yes, the cowboy looks like shit but _oh._

_Oh._

The cowboy is back home, all is right with the world and Ezekiel finally crashes headlong into the realization that he is in deep deep trouble.

_Oh no._

He swallows, forcing himself to relax and grin as he makes his way into the room. Then he notices the second thing and his grin fades, making way for a frown because that half-empty bottle of whiskey standing on the coffee table, an empty glass beside it? That’s weird, to say the least. Because Jacob doesn’t drink anything stronger than beer and ever since they took that job in Oklahoma and met his old man, Ezekiel has stopped wondering why that is.

‘You having a little afterparty by yourself there?’ he asks, nodding towards the bottle. ‘Is that what this is? A booze-and-booty call? Because if so, you could’ve just told me over the phone. I don’t mind.’

He does, just a little. But he’s not going to tell Jacob that. Not when Jacob looks at him, blue eyes weary but still light with a smile he can’t quite hide. ‘None of that, Jonesy,’ he says, his voice barely more than a rasp. ‘Nothing like that.’

Ezekiel huffs. ‘So this _isn’t_ a booty call? Because cowboy I swear, I came here for pizza and sex and right now, I’m not seeing either of those two things happening. What’s going on?’

‘C’mere,’ Jacob says, waving a hand in some kind of gesture towards the other end of the couch. ‘Pizza’s on his way. Double pep, should be here in half an hour, promise.’

Still frowning, Ezekiel crosses over to the couch, removes the plaid hanging over the arm rest and sits down there, ignoring Jacob’s eye roll. ‘Alright. You needed to tell me something. I’m listening and you’ve got half an hour.’

Jacob pauses for a moment, his mouth working as if he’s trying to find the words. Even shooting a glance at the whiskey bottle, almost as if he’s about to pour another shot of courage.

Which is the point Ezekiel finally decides to drop the snark. ‘Cowboy,’ he says softly, reaching out towards Jacob’s shoulder. ‘Talk to me. What’s up? Something happen at that conference?’

‘Yeah.’

Jacob swallows and huffs something that’s almost a laugh. ‘Yeah. You could say that. Uhm.’

He pauses again. Takes a deep breath. Then, finally, starts: ‘There was this guy…’ and Ezekiel feels his stomach plummet.

‘There was this guy,’ Jacob says, gaze locked on something in the far distance. ‘And he… Well. Uhm. Do you believe in soulmates?’

‘Soulmates?’

‘Yeah. Like, the other half of you, One True Love, the one person you’re supposed to end up with to live happily ever after, that kind of thing?’

Ezekiel shrugs and firmly pushes aside the feeling of the couch he’s sitting on slowly disintegrating beneath him. ‘Sure. Why not.’

‘If you’d asked me a couple years ago what my soulmate’d look like,’ Jacob continues, a small smile on his face, ‘I’d say this guy came pretty damn close. Art historian, specializes in ancient Mesopotamia, does a lot of conservation work in the Middle East to make sure old temples and palaces don’t get blown up any more than they already are…’

‘Sounds perfect,’ Ezekiel says, maybe a _tad_ more sarcastic than he intended. ‘What’d he look like? I mean, on a scale of Indiana Jones to Rick o’Connell?’

Jacob scrubs his face and looks at Ezekiel, still with that same little smile that makes Ezekiel want to vomit. ‘Remember when we went to the Prado and I showed you that painting of St. Sebastian?’

‘The almost-naked bloke with a bunch of arrows sticking out of him? Yeah, he looked…’

‘Hot.’

‘Fit.’

‘Same thing.’ Jacob’s smile is only growing wider and Ezekiel’s urge to get up and run while he still can is only growing stronger because wherever this conversation was going, this was even worse than he thought. ‘Dark hair, blue eyes, built like a tree and the face of an angel. If I’d been a Renaissance painter, I honestly think I would’ve grabbed hold of him to be my muse or whatever because _damn.’_ He stops and lets out a low whistle. _‘Damn,_ he looked good.’

‘Let me guess,’ Ezekiel sighs, forcing the words out one by one. ‘You got his phone number and now you wanna know if I’m down for a threesome with this guy?’

A threesome. With a total stranger who made the tips of Jacob’s ears go red just by thinking of him. It wasn’t even close to what Ezekiel wanted, but right now, it seemed to be the best possible outcome of this entire nightmare. Because the alternative?

Ezekiel does not want to think about the alternative. At all. Even if it’s just Friday nights. Even if they haven’t discussed, or talked, or said anything about anything else. Even if their deal is as simple as ‘fuckbuddies who get together once a week to blow off the steam from their very stressful job of saving the world and don’t see the need to tell anyone else about this’.

That doesn’t mean Ezekiel is happy to see it all go down the drain because of an angel-faced art historian with Indiana Jones tendencies. Especially because he’s already got one of those, and he’s not exactly looking to start a collection. One is quite enough for him, thank you very much.

Jacob looks up. Ezekiel isn’t sure what the expression on his own face is doing, but Jacob’s smile finally fades, the look in his eyes growing soft. ‘I didn’t get his number.’

Ezekiel blinks. ‘You what?’

‘I didn't get his number,’ Jacob repeats. ‘Because I never want to see that guy again in my life.’

In the silence, the ancient heating pipes in the walls of Jacob’s apartment rattle and pop like gunfire. Outside, a siren wails as an ambulance races past, the flashing lights briefly bathing the living room in a haze of blue. Then it’s gone and Ezekiel is left staring at Jacob, mouth _not_ hanging open because he’s got more dignity than that, but it’s a close call.

‘You just said he was perfect.’

‘Hm-hm.’

‘You just said he could be your soul mate.’

‘I did.’

‘ _Built like a tree and the face of an angel.’_

‘Are those finger quotes really necessary?’

‘Absolutely. But, let’s get back to how you _don’t_ want to see this guy again?’ Ezekiel rolls his eyes and lets out a breath that’s part pure relief, part deep exasperation. ‘Cowboy, I know you like to deny yourself nice things but this seems extreme, even for you. What’d he do, drop a 1000 year old tea cup? Misquote Shakespeare? Snag the last raisin bun from the breakfast buffet?’

Jacob chuckles and shakes his head. ‘Nah, none of that. He was… he was okay. A good guy. Even had some decent ideas about art restoration that might help… anyway. No, uhm. I just.’ He shrugs and falls quiet, eyes locked on something far away again and throat working nervously. Ezekiel frowns and waits patiently, getting the distinct impression that they’re now finally coming up to the point the Dutch courage was for.

‘I missed you.’

The words are soft and heavy and drop in the silence like stones in a pond. Before Ezekiel can properly process their meaning and find an appropriate response, other than the knee-jerk _you already said that cowboy,_ Jacob continues, the words now tumbling out: ‘I… god, I missed you so much. And I know, I _know_ we’re not committed or anything and there’s nothing between us except Friday nights and you probably wouldn’t even care what I did outside of that but I just, I just had one of the best weeks of my life and I met all sorts of historians and scholars and experts and all these people, all _my_ people, people I’ve read and followed and admired for so long and I met this guy and he was clever and funny and hot and he got all my jokes and then we had lunch together, me and this guy and some others and you know the only thing I could think of? _Jonesy would’ve made mincemeat out of him_.’

He looks up, his eyes finally meeting Ezekiel’s. Who is trying his level best not to gape at him like a fish on dry land, although from the way Jacob’s mouth quirks upwards, he’s failing quite spectacularly. ‘You would’ve,’ he continues, losing a little of the breakneck speed. ‘I don't think you’d have stopped making Indiana Jones references from the moment you clapped eyes on him, if you weren’t too busy running around snagging all the shinies on display. There was, ah, there was this very interesting lecture about identifying ancient jewelry and tellin’ which was fake and which was the real thing.’

That, at least, Ezekiel does know how to reply to. After he’s cleared his throat a couple of times, that is. ‘That… uh. That does sound interesting. Cowboy. You brought back souvenirs, right? Some notes?’

Jacob nods towards his laptop bag, standing where he dropped it next to the door. ‘Notes are in there if you wanna read them,’ he says and before Ezekiel can process _that,_ he continues: ‘But that’s the thing, Jones. See, I went to this conference. I met all these people. I went to see all these things and to hear about all kinds of interesting ideas and new discoveries and all the time and it was great, but. I couldn't help but feeling. It would’ve been even better if you’d been there.’

‘You sure about that, cowboy?’ Ezekiel asks, keeping his voice light while also tucking his hands into the folds of his cardigan so Jacob won’t see them shaking. ‘Because all I can see is me picking up those shinies you were talking about and then you yelling at me to put them back.’

‘Maybe.’ Jacob shrugs. Even with his heart and mind racing a mile a minute, Ezekiel can’t help but notice the tense line of his shoulders, the way the cowboy seems to be bracing himself for some kind of impact. Something inside him hurts at the sight, in a small but weirdly brilliant way; like a papercut he just has to touch with a sweaty finger, wincing at the sting and enjoying it at the same time. ‘But I still missed you. And you don’t have to…’ Jacob waves a hand, leaving the rest of the sentence hang. ‘Whatever. But, I thought I should tell you. I don’t know. Do… do with it what you will, I don’t mind, it’s all good.’

‘It’s all good,’ Ezekiel repeats slowly. Once again quietly wondering how the hell Jacob ever managed to keep his IQ of 190 a secret if he’s such an obviously shit liar. ‘Sure. Uhm. I’ll. Just.’

He’s not sure where the hell he’s going with that sentence; he’s not even sure where the hell he’s _supposed_ to be going or what he wants or needs to say that’s not some kind of way-too-premature, way-too-sappy declaration that will send the cowboy screaming for the hills. Also, he is kind of still reeling from that plot twist Jacob just pulled on him, which is why he swallows and looks down, trying to find some words that’ll sound at least moderately coherent when put together into a sentence.

The doorbell buzzes and they both jump. It really says something about Ezekiel’s current state of mind that he completely forgot about the pizza heading their way.

‘I’ll go get it,’ Jacob mutters before dragging himself up from the couch and into the hallway. Ezekiel watches him go; slowly and stubbornly, Jacob is obviously running on fumes after his art history party week.

But he still called Ezekiel over. For a conversation that could not have been easy under the best of circumstances.

Staring into the dark depth of the hallway, Ezekiel suddenly finds his answer. It’s right there when Jacob returns, holding two steaming, greasy cardboard boxes and studiously looking everywhere but at Ezekiel.

‘You know,’ Ezekiel says, getting up to intercept him halfway. He can’t really come as close as he wants to because the pizza boxes are in the way, but he still manages to wrap one arm around Jacob’s back, squeezing gently through the layers of hoodie and flannel and shirt. ‘Why, ah. Why don’t we put those in the fridge and let’s just. Go to bed.’

Jacob stops. Blinks. Sags ever so slightly against Ezekiel, although that’s probably not on purpose. ‘Say what now?’

‘Let’s put those in the fridge,’ Ezekiel repeats, tugging at the pizza boxes with his other hand. ‘You look like you’re ready to drop and uhm. I’m not that hungry anyway.’

It takes Jacob a while. But he does speak a million languages and yes, apparently, ‘clueless idiot desperately in love with his mate’ _is_ one of them. He looks up, blinking, at Ezekiel who is both looking and not-looking at him through his lashes, for once fiercely glad he is not a person who blushes easily.

‘You’re not that hungry.’

Ezekiel shrugs.

‘For a cheese pizza with double pepperoni. From Alfredo’s.’

Ezekiel shrugs again. ‘I like it better when it’s cold, is all.’

Jacob’s throat is working, blue eyes wide as he stares at Ezekiel for an uncomfortably long moment. The silence drags on, with neither of them willing to break it as a great and terrifying realization dawns on them both.

Then Jacob growls: ‘Oh, _fuck_ you,’ and next thing Ezekiel knows, the pizza boxes have disappeared and he is hauled in by the shoulders by two very strong hands as Jacob’s mouth crashes onto his, hard and hot and with an urgency bordering on desperation. Ezekiel’s hands fly up into Jacob’s hair at once, grabbing hold of this stupid cowboy who just upped and left for _days,_ and kisses him back with everything he’s got as the world around him dissolves in a cloud of old leather, woodsmoke and the faint tang of old Kentucky bourbon.

One kiss grows into two, into four, into a dozen until they finally find themselves tangled together on the couch, the pizza lost and forgotten on the coffee table. Jacob’s face is tucked into the crook of Ezekiel’s neck, all but asleep, with Ezekiel’s arm wrapped securely around his shoulders and nimble fingers drawing slow and gentle patterns across his ribcage. Ezekiel would happily stay like that for hours. Stay here, where it’s warm and safe and he can feel the beating of Jacob’s heart echo in his own chest. But the couch is old and worn and kind of narrow for two people and Ezekiel loves Jacob, he really does, but he also loves the concept of being able to stand up straight in the morning.

‘Come on, cowboy. Up you go.’

‘Hmmmmprrf.’

‘Yeah, I know. Come on.’

With enough nudging and prodding, Jacob hoists himself up, blinking owlishly into the dim light. ‘What…’ It seems all the kissing has finally fried his last two brain cells, because he doesn’t manage anything else. ‘Wha…’

Ezekiel sniggers, then nuzzles a kiss into Jacob’s stubble to take the sting out of it. ‘You, bed. Pizza, fridge. Me, also bed.’

‘OK.’ Jacob nods. And nods again, slumping forward and almost falling over with the weight of his head. ‘Yeah. Bed. OK.’

He drags himself off the couch and starts plodding towards the bedroom. By the time Ezekiel has put the pizzas into the fridge, cleared away the whiskey and turned off all the lights, he finds his cowboy already very fast asleep.

\---

When he wakes up the next morning, it takes Jacob a moment to figure out a couple of things. First of all, there’s a nagging headache, which can only mean he has been drinking last night. Which he never does, so that’s the first thing that’s strange.

Then there is the smell of coffee and re-heated pizza wafting through the open bedroom door. And Jacob is a full-grown responsible adult who knows the value of healthy eating habits, but he would be lying if the greasy smell of charring cheese wasn’t making his mouth water and his stomach rumble.

Still, it’s weird. Because pizza usually means Jones, and if Jacob’s internal calendar is correct, Jones should not be here right now. Not that he’d _mind_ Jones being here, but it’s just that…

Oh.

Right.

Yeah. That happened.

With a groan, Jacob flops back into his pillow, eyes scrunched shut against the grin that’s threatening to split his face apart. It’s a lost cause, of course; but as he fumbles for his phone and cracks one eye open to look at the time, he holds very still for a moment before the bubble finally bursts. His shoulders are shaking and his hands are clutching at the comforter as he dissolves into helpless laughter until the tears are streaming down his cheeks and he’s gasping for breath.

Well. That’s one mystery that does not need solving. Even though he’s been dead to the world for over twelve hours, he is pretty sure the person eating pizza for breakfast in his kitchen is also the one who stole his phone and changed his lock screen to a picture of St. Sebastian, with the familiar grin of a certain world-class thief photoshopped over the usual expression of holy rapture.

‘Stone, I know you’re awake! Get your butt out of bed, pizza’s getting cold!’

Jacob sighs. Swallows the last bubble of laughter and sits up, scrubbing the final remnants of sleep out of his eyes. If this is going to be the rest of his life, he supposes he could do a whole lot worse.


End file.
